Page 10 of Fangbanger

I am a fool for making a deal with her, survival be damned. A stake through the heart might be better than partnering with one of her kind. My lip curls as I think about her arrogance.

She pulled me from tracking my brother. I killed one of his disgusting friends just last night, and I was so close to hunting him down.

She bound me. The memories of my past life scrape at the back of my head, where I feel her. I want to claw her out of it. Slayer or not, I could hate her for this alone.

She slumps heavily against the counter before she begins boiling water and searching through her draws, cursing softly under her breath.

I like the way she moves.

I scowl.

Objectively, she is graceful and economical in her movements, as all fighters are. But I don’t like it.

That spell is messing with my head.

“Will it wear off?”

She yanks open a drawer filled with what look like throwing daggers before slamming it shut and slicing me a narrow-eyed glance. “Will what wear off?”

“The spell you cast, you little fool.”

She slams another drawer. “The book didn’t say.”

“You cast a spell you didn’t know anything about?” My voice is incredulous. This is why I hate slayers. They are a mix of incautious and sanctimonious. Stab first, think later. Or in this case, cast a spell that makes me relive my worst memories and think nothing of the effects.

Maybe I should kill her and hope the spell dissipates.

“I was desperate.” Her words are clipped.

I refuse to be curious as to her desperation. The damn spell is toying with me, making me soften toward her. I fold my arms.

Her gaze darts to them and away. Huh.

I flex and her shoulders go taut.

Interesting. I tuck the information away to use against her later.

“You will remove it.”

She drops a strip of cloth into the water. She moves slowly, like she is in constant pain. Slayers heal fast, but I find myself calculating how much pain she must be in and how quickly it is easing. As any good warrior would do with an opponent.

“Slayer,” I growl.

“I don’t know how, okay?” Her words are clipped. “My witch friend cast it. I’ll find out how it can be removed.”

“Do,” I say acidly. Witch magic. It’s unpredictable and can survive the death of the caster. It will definitely survive the slayer’s death.

My jaw tightens.

Fucking slayer. Her body is clad in a fitted leather top and tight pants that move when she does, like a second skin. Her hair is braided in a crown around her head, revealing a mere inch of her delicate neck above the high collar of her shirt.

That single strip of skin makes my fangs ache. She has large, dark eyes and thick lashes. Pink lips with faint lines and a smattering of freckles across her nose. The spell makes me long to slip my tongue under strip of leather, to taste the salt and musk that gathers at the pulse, to tease her blood up to the surface, to feel the butterfly-light flutter of her lashes against my cheek.

Would she like it?

I shove the thoughts away. A growl looses from my throat. This spell cannot be gone soon enough.

“Sit,” she grunts. “You’re making me nervous.”